


up from under the ice

by wangler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Beta Derek, Blood, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Nemeton, Nogitsune Stiles, POV Alternating, Rituals, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Speculation, Stilinski Family Feels, Temporary Character Death, True Alpha Scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/pseuds/wangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has practiced this over and over, but never with the nogitsune actually waking up in his mind like the crankiest troll to ever emerge from underneath a bridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	up from under the ice

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [up from under the ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257343) by [tupoy_olen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tupoy_olen/pseuds/tupoy_olen)



Stiles closes the circle of mountain ash himself, his hands shaking from the wolf lichen in his system. It hurts from his fingertips to his toes like a sunburn under his skin, but it's a good pain. A reminder that it's hurting the nogitsune more than it's hurting him.  
  
The circle glows for a moment, activating.  
  
"Got it?" Scott asks, the sound of his voice muffled by Stiles' thudding pulse.  
  
"Yeah," Stiles says, brushing his hands off and laughing, jittery and mirthless. He wears his fear like his favorite threadbare tshirt. He hasn't been anything but scared for weeks now. "You're sure I won't be able to get out? When it -- when I, when..."  
  
*  
  
"You won't be able to cross the line," Derek says. "And we can't get in now. Are you sure you want to do this?"  
  
He's pacing already, agitated by the barrier. He can smell Stiles' exhaustion and pain and fear and it feels unnatural to be divided from a wounded member of the pack.  
  
"No, I was thinking it might be fun to have at you guys one more time," Stiles says, sinking unsteadily to his knees on the nemeton stump. He crosses his arms like he's cold and gives Derek an eyeroll that's achingly normal.  
  
His shoelaces are untied. Derek is struck by an overwhelming urge to reach over and fix them, but the mountain ash hums, impenetrable.  
  
*  
  
"Stiles," Scott says, his breath whistling from his nose as he tries to center himself against the feeling that this is plan is wrong, that it's too dangerous. "It's been almost an hour. The poison's supposed to wear off soon."  
  
He remembers how it felt in the tub of ice water, staring at each other, knowing they were both going to cross to the other side. It had been calming in a weird way, doing it together.  
  
Nothing about this is calming.  
  
Stiles pats the wooden urn next to him. "I'm good to go," he says, meeting Scott's eye. Scott reaches out, instinctively, and the mountain ash repels him with a spark and a hiss.  
  
*  
  
Stiles has practiced this over and over, but never with the nogitsune actually waking up in his mind like the crankiest troll to ever emerge from underneath a bridge. He feels it stir -- an awful throbbing headache like a relentless knock at a door.  
  
"Stiles, focus," Derek says, his voice so worried that Stiles looks up. Time has gone by already. A few seconds or minutes, he doesn't know. Scott and Derek stand close together, shifting from foot to foot like caged animals.  
  
It's funny, since Stiles is the one in a cage. A little circular one made of mountain ash and god, it's so loud. The thudding sensation gets faster, reverberating in his skull, and a deep scream sounds on each backbeat. The nogitsune is furious -- its rage like an whole army rushing at Stiles.  
  
His eyes sting and he hurriedly scrubs the blur away. He can feel it everywhere now. It's a skin-crawling sensation, like his bones and muscles are expanding. Like the worst fever he's ever had. He swallows back a sob of terror and starts tracing the intricate kanji on the urn.  
  
*  
 Derek grabs Scott by the elbow for something to hold onto, and Scott doesn't shake him off. An unnatural wind has picked up, obscuring the alive-smell of Stiles and the forest around them.  
  
Leaves kick up around their feet and blow past the circle of mountain ash that remains solid and thick, as if magnetized to the rotting wood.  
  
Derek growls, low and wary. He's never liked magic.  
  
Still, his gut warms with pride over what Stiles is doing. He can't imagine how Scott must feel as his alpha. Stiles is clearly a born emissary. A powerful emissary.  
  
The symbols on the urn glow at Stiles' fingertips, doing exactly what Deaton said they would. There's no going back now.  
  
*  
  
Scott wants to call out, to catch Stiles' attention one more time, hating that it's crossing his mind that one more time, one last time, might be all that they have. The impulse passes when the kanji abruptly light up as bright as sunlight and shoot golden beams out like lasers in a video game.  
  
Stiles doesn't even have a chance to react.  
  
The light pierces right through his body, and he scrambles back, crying out. When his back hits the mountain ash barrier, it's like watching a car wreck. His pained cry chokes off and he thrashes like he's caught in electricity. His eyes roll back and his nose is bleeding and it's already too much. It's too much for a human body to handle.  
  
"Derek!" Scott screams out. "It's killing him!"  
  
"Look," Derek says, tugging on Scott's arm.  
  
They both stare at the nemeton. Stiles isn't screaming anymore. He's snarling like a rabid dog.  
  
Derek sounds like he swallowed broken glass. "I don't think he can feel it."  
  
The nogitsune convulses, twisting Stiles' features to distorted rage. The light pulses through him, unyielding.  
  
*  
  
Stiles blacks out after the first burst of fiery pain and blinks his eyes open to the endless landscape of his subconscious. Ever since he started taking Deaton's gross wolf lichen tincture, the nogitsune's done a lot less decorating in his mind. The dank Eichen House basement is gone. Nothing is sharp or rusted or bloody. It's just empty and grey, like every misty, magical setting Stiles has ever imagined. Which makes sense, he guesses.  
  
His throat hurts like he's been screaming, and he touches it lightly, wondering if his body is doing that. He hopes whatever happens will only echo here. Maybe it'll be like the twilight sedation they do at the dentist.  
  
His legs start to feel numb and he sits down heavily. The ground beneath him is cold and smooth, like polished stone. His stomach hurts too, in a hot bad way. He rests his palm lightly over his belly button, like he's trying to hold something in.  
  
"Guys?" he asks, testing his voice. It feels small in all the vastness, and like he expected, no one responds. Derek and Scott can't hear him, and they're probably busy watching the magical urn toast the nogitsune like something out of Ghostbusters, which would sound awesome if he wasn't so scared to die alone here in the emptiness. He wipes his nose and closes his eyes and waits.  
  
*  
  
Derek has always hated the feeling of a mountain ash barrier. Pushing against activated mountain ash feels like being shocked, but deeper and colder.  
  
This time he doesn't even feel it. He throws himself against the barrier wildly, beyond caring that he's letting the animal in him take over. Beside him, Scott is calmer about it, focused and coiled, pushing two hands against the sparking shield as if he has no doubt he can break through it to reach Stiles.  
  
But leave it to Stiles, it's the strongest, most stubborn mountain ash line Derek's ever encountered.  
  
Stiles -- or the thing inside of him -- thrashes in the light.  
  
*  
  
It ends without warning, leaving behind hollow silence, like the strange emptiness that follows the grand finale of a fireworks display. Scott blinks, his eyes adjusting to the dark after so much wild blue and gold light. He's on his hands and knees at the edge of the stump, having stumbled forward when everything went quiet.  
  
The barrier is gone, whisked away by the last of the cold wind. The urn rests on its side, sealed and silent once more. And Stiles is sprawled across the nemeton like a broken doll, blood as dark as mud on his pale, pale face.  
  
"He's gone," Derek says hoarsely, standing at the edge of the stump as if the barrier's still there. Scott wants to think he means the nogitsune -- the dark spirit now sealed away in the urn.  
  
Scott's breath hurts in his chest. It hasn't felt like this since the last time his asthma gripped his lungs. He stumbles forward, fingers scrambling for a pulse, for warmth. For anything.  
  
He wipes the blood away from Stiles' face. It's just a nosebleed. They bleed a lot. That's all. "Stiles," he says, feeling young and stupid and scared. "Stiles, wake up. Come on."  
  
"Scott," Derek says, right beside him, bewildered and soft.  
  
"Deaton said it would be dangerous. He didn't say it would kill him! Stiles. Come on, man. Wake up."  
  
"Scott," Derek repeats, taking Scott by the wrist until Scott looks down, away from the unnaturally stillness of Stiles' grey features.  
  
The nemeton is glowing faintly where Scott's bloodied hand braces against the wood. As Scott stares, a pale green vine grows out of the smear of blood.  
  
*  
  
"Wake up." Her voice is like a smile, warm and fond. "Come on."  
  
Stiles curls toward the warmth and shakes his head. "No way," he says, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He feels like he's made of lead. The good, content kind of lead. And he isn't moving, no matter how many times his mom tells him to get up.  
  
Then she whispers his name.  
  
No one can say it the way his mom can. When he was little, he thought she made it up. A magical language just for them, that no one else could get right. Big vowels and swallowed consonants and a little growl. His name. His special name.  
  
"Mom," he says, pushing up. His arms tremble as he opens his eyes. She's there but not. A brush of long brown hair, a kiss against his forehead, a strong grip at his hand.  
  
She says his name again, rueful, happy, loving. "Wake up."  
  
*  
  
"Mom," is the first thing Stiles says when he exhales. Which is slightly strange, but not as strange as the fact that the nemeton started growing spring-green vines and white blossoms that wrapped around Stiles' body like a shroud.  
  
Or as strange as the fact that the dead tree brought Stiles back to life.  
  
Derek sinks back on his heels. He looks at his hands, his fingers coated with the blood he and Scott smeared all over the old wood as much as they could once they realized the nemeton was reacting to Stiles' sacrifice.  
  
"We need to get him to the hospital," he says, trying to sound calmer than he feels.  
  
*  
  
Scott can't stop patting Stiles' body. He has to feel the warmth of it, has to know that Stiles' heart is beating and he's breathing and he's not a cold dead body.  
  
"Ow, dude," Stiles says, batting his hands away. His voice is wrecked. "Quit it."  
  
"You might be bleeding internally. You're--your spleen could be ruptured or something, I don't know."  
  
"I'm fine," Stiles says, trying sit up.  
  
Scott roars, "You were dead!"  
  
They're huddled on the nemeton, and it's starting to rain. "I'm not dead now," Stiles says. His eyes widen. "Right? Please tell me this isn't some Sixth Sense bullshit, Scott."  
  
"You're not dead," Derek says.  
  
Stiles gives him a crooked look. "You sound relieved."  
  
Scott starts to say something about how this is serious -- how this has been the worst night of his life and he's never been so scared, how they need to go home and take the urn to Deaton and burn Stiles' bloodied clothes, or maybe how they need to go straight to the hospital so his mom can medically verify that Stiles is, in fact, alive -- when Stiles pitches forward in a crushing hug and starts sobbing tightly, silently against Scott, the way he's always cried, like he can't stand for anyone to hear it but his best friend.  
  
Scott looks over Stiles' shoulder at Derek. "What?" he asks softly, the hair standing up on his arms at the lost expression on Derek's face.  
  
"Didn't you feel that?" Derek asks.  
  
"I mostly feel Stiles trying to squeeze my eyeballs out," Scott says.  
  
"Shut up," Stiles hiccups against his throat. "Having a moment here."  
  
"Something warm," Derek says, picking his way out of the tangle of vines and flowers. He gives Scott a hand as they both help Stiles up. Derek keeps one hand on Scott and the other on Stiles, hovering close and protective in a way Scott has zero problem with at the moment.  
  
"Probably my mom," Stiles says, scrubbing at the mess of snot and blood and tears on his face. He smiles to himself, looking dopey with exhaustion, and Scott takes a clear, slow breath. It finally feels like they've come up from under the ice, together.


End file.
